Page 2 of Saved By the Mountain Man

Maybe Mom was right. It’s all too hard sometimes. Maybe life isn’t worth living.

My heart deflates. That dark temptation in the back of my head, the one telling me to give up the fight, it’s getting louder.

The pounding of my heart thrashes in my ears and I turn my back against the door, my blurring vision catching sight of the wooden box I keep on the shelf. It sits atop a neatly folded flag, the only possession of my father’s that I have.

With a sudden burst of strength, I kick at my attacker’s leg, giving me a momentary advantage. I slam the door and twist the lock.

The banging starts up again. It gets harder. And harder.

I’m done with this shit.

Racing forward, I grab the wooden box from the shelf. Shoving it in my handbag, I collect the folded-up flag and throw that in too. Pacing around my apartment, my head is in too much of a whirlwind to think straight.

The banging at the front door gets louder.

I should get some clothes.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

No. Make up first. I need that for work.

BANG. BANG.

Somehow, I end up in the kitchen, standing in front of the refrigerator. My head is a fucking mess. I open the fridge and go to throw some food in my bag, but there isn’t anything in there. I’ve been living off the lunch the café provides me for weeks now.

BANG. BANG. CRUNCH.

My eyes widen at the sight of my front door swinging open. My stalker bursts in, a wicked sneer making my blood run cold. He takes two slow steps and closes the door behind him. He starts laughing, his chest bouncing beneath an evil laugh. He grips his crotch and looks me up and down.

Yeah. He’s not here to share a cup of coffee now, is he?

I squeeze my hands and make my move. He might be stronger than me, but dammit, I’m fast.

Zipping across the kitchen, I reach the window leading out to my balcony. There’s a fire escape out there and although I doubt it’s up to code, it’s my only way out. With one leg hooked over the ledge, I glance back and see the photograph of my mother and father holding me. It’s sitting on the table by the sofa.

It’s our only family photo. I can’t leave it behind.

I lunge forward and grab it, risking everything. Shoving the frame in my bag, I feel fingernails claw into my back. Pain grinds down my spine, but I hook my elbow back and make contact with the man, right on his fucking nose.

I stand up and see him holding his face, blood streaming through his fingers. So I lay another boot into his gut. He falls to the floor, doubled over in pain. I can’t breathe. Can’t move. But I take a chance, gritting my teeth and racing out the front door instead of down the rusty fire escape.

I don’t remember how I get to my car, but when I do, I’m racing down the street. Tears stream down my face, emotions pouring out of me as I speed away. The road is blurry, and my breathing is sketchy as fuck. I’m a complete mess.

A mess with nowhere to go.

When the tall buildings turn into smaller suburban homes, I decide I’m far enough away to pull over. I need to get my shit together, but all I manage is to grab the photo of my parents and hold it against my chest.

“What do I do?” I ask, begging for my parent’s guidance. “What do I do now?”

Warm tears spill onto the glass frame, and I break down, my parents smiling back at me as my life falls apart. Why can’t I go to them? Why aren’t they here to support me? Isn’t that what parents are for?

“Fuck you,” I say, clenching the sides of the photograph. “Fuck you, you do this to me! You both failed me! You both left and now look!”

I cast the frame aside and let the hatred spill out. Grabbing the folded-up flag, I drape it over me and use it as a blanket. I clutch the flag tightly and pull it up to my neck. It smells dusty and old, but there’s a hint of something nostalgic about the scent.

Dad.

My mind drifts to my father. He would have spent nights like this in the military. Cold, alone and scared. I take a deep breath and imagine his strength and determination. What he gave for us, the ultimate sacrifice to defend his country.

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